


The Empty House

by AnnieVH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9449306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: After a humiliating incident that makes his life even more complicated, Mycroft can no longer call for protection in the middle of the night. But going back inside with a threat hanging over his head is not an option either. His only option is to call Lestrade.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana
> 
> I haven't done Mystrade and Sherlock BBC stories in years. Forgive me if I'm a bit rusty.

 

There was a number in Mycroft's contact list that connected him directly to the head of the Secret Intelligence Service and he'd used it more than once in the past, though only once for personal issues. If he so wished, his house would once again be swarming with the nation's top agents, forensic officers and search dogs in the blink of an eye. Whatever intruder was currently hiding in his house, they wouldn't stand a chance and the entire situation would be resolved quickly and efficiently so he could go back to sleep.

Mycroft didn't even consider using that number. Not a week before, he'd concluded that making a fool out of himself a second time was actually worse than risking the possibility of gruesome murder at the hands of a vindictive sister. Details of that unfortunate incident had spread up the branches of government in less than a day, only adding to the rumors about his fragile mental state. Preposterous rumors, but rumors nonetheless, and those could cause as much damage, if not more so, than the truth.

Lady Smallwood had suggested protective detail to guarantee his safety and to, quote-unquote, “help him adapt back into his usual routine”. Sir Edwin had gone as far as to suggest _vacations_ , his tone so full of tact that it bordered on offensive. Mycroft didn't need to be handled with kid gloves. He was not about to break.

And yet... there he was...

Calling the SIS had been an overreaction, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. The company that handled his home security – one he had assessed to be fairly Sherlock-proof – was no longer an option either. His superiors hadn't exactly been subtle when addressing his sanity and the long list of calls to the security company had been unceremoniously tossed on his desk. Men whose minds were “as sharp as ever” didn't update their home security every two days.

If it had reached the point that they were screening his private calls, then it wouldn't be difficult to get their hands on the 999 recordings, were Mycroft to ever call that number. His panicked voice begging for help was not something he'd like to hear played back to him ever again. If word got around that he was losing his mind, then he'd quickly fall off favor, and once that happened he'd become vulnerable, if not a liability.

Uncle Rudy had always told him that no one is irreplaceable and, while one couldn't help being arrogant, one should never fool himself into thinking he wasn't expendable to the people he worked for. If he wanted to keep on his superiors' good side, calling for help was not an option.

Standing in front of his gates all night was not an option either.

There was a number in his cellphone, though. A last resource. Mycroft had been contemplating it for almost an entire minute while he calculated the risks and consequences. Overall, it didn't make him feel any safer or saner and, if his many rivals didn't learn about it, then Sherlock surely would and he wasn't ready for Sherlock's usual mockery, or worse, his very unusual _pity_.

He wasn't ready to go back inside, either.

Mycroft pressed “call” and waited as the phone rang.

 

 

 

There was a piercing sound bringing Lestrade out of his slumber, a routine he was more than familiar with. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the screen, however, he noticed the name flashing before him and wasn't sure whether to be surprised or concerned. He was used to being awakened by Donovan, ready to inform him of an urgent matter, or, more often than he'd like, Sherlock, claiming an emergency. Mycroft Holmes' name was not one he associated with after-hour calls. Regular, though strangely polite, kidnappings, yes. Phone calls, no.

He pulled himself up to rest on his elbows and picked up the phone in a drowsy voice.

“Yeah?”

“Detective Inspector? I'm sorry for waking you.”

Lestrade blinked in the dark, fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp. Mycroft's tone sounded as it always did: barely warm, with a hint of pretentiousness underlining every word. The kind of voice that put him on defensive mode without even trying.

“Yeah, sorry, just gimme a, hold it-”

He finally managed to turn the lamp on, the light making his eyes burn. He sat up on the bed and asked, “Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?”

“Pardon me, I know it's late.”

“No, it's fine, it's only-” He pulled the phone away to check the time. “No, it is. It's actually late.”

“Yes.”

“What grants me a call at four in the morning?”

Mycroft went quiet.

“Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade pressed.

“I believe there is someone inside my house.”

Lestrade frowned, his words registering slowly in his sleepy mind. “You think someone broke in?”

“I wouldn't call you to arrest a guest.”

Lestrade huffed into the phone, his breath becoming static and punctuating his own frustration. Mycroft Holmes was lucky that dealing with his little brother on a regular basis had given Lestrade a thicker skin.

“Yes, I understand that,” Lestrade said, trying his best to be patient. “I'm just trying to get all the facts.”

He gave Mycroft a moment to reply – or apologize, though Lestrade wasn't holding his breath – and then, when the other man said nothing, he asked, “Are you inside the house now?”

“No. I'm outside.”

Lestrade thought of Mycroft's home, which he'd only seen a couple of times.

“Outside the house or outside the property?”

“Outside the property. By the entry gate.”

“Alright. I'm going to send an officer over. Until then, I need you to-”

“No.”

Lestrade, who was swinging his legs off the bed to get up, interrupted the movement as soon as his feet touched the carpet.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No. I don't need an officer. I need you to come over in person.”

“Yes, I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and I'm on my way, but given the gravity of the situation there has to be a unit closer to you-”

“It has to be you.”

Lestrade blinked as he tried to understand. More often than not, the Holmes' brothers would rush to deductions that made perfect sense once they were explained out loud but sounded like lunacy while out of context. Lestrade didn't want to appear like an idiot ( _again!_ ) by missing some sort of vital information as to why he had to be the one to rush to Mycroft Holmes' house on command. Once he accepted there was no sense to be made of that request, he said, “Mr. Holmes, if there is indeed a person in your house and that person has a gun-”

“I didn't say they have a gun.”

“Burglars usually do.”

Mycroft didn't argue.

“You said 'they',” Lestrade repeated, finally pushing himself off the bed and fishing articles of clothing that were scattered on his bedroom floor. “Did you see how many?”

Mycroft went quiet again, which made no sense to him. Given the risks that he was under, Lestrade would have thought the man would be spewing information quickly as to make the entire process more efficient, especially considering what the man had been through not five weeks before.

“Mr. Holmes? Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, switching the urgency in his voice to a softer tone that he reserved for victims or particularly heinous crimes.

Mycroft must have noticed the change because Lestrade could hear him snapping his tongue. However, he continued to say nothing.

“You are outside, can you see any cars?” Lestrade asked.

“I cannot,” Mycroft answered. Lestrade could hear his conviction weakening, but he didn't stop getting dressed.

“Skidmarks, any-”

“None. The street is empty.”

“No getaway car, then?”

Silence.

It might not be nice of him, but Lestrade couldn't help but smile to himself. For once, he'd thought ahead of one of the Holmes' brothers.

 _Seems rather_ obvious _to me_ , he thought, mimicking Sherlock's haughty voice inside his head but keeping it to himself. Not that either brother had ever been that considerate.

“Yes, I noticed that as I got outside,” Mycroft said, shattering any illusions of cleverness Lestrade might have experienced. “But perhaps... they...”

His voice trailed off.

“Do you believe they took a cab?” he suggested, though he was grasping at straws and he knew it.

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “No, I don't believe they did.”

“Did you see anyone inside your house? At all?”

Silence again. This time, Lestrade could hear it was becoming heavy with shame and, slowly, the evidence began sliding into place.

“Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked again. “If you didn't see anyone-”

“It was nothing.”

Lestrade stopped, phone trapped between shoulder and ear as he buttoned a shirt.

“It was nothing,” he repeated. “I'm probably overreacting and I'm sorry that I wasted your time.”

Lestrade feared he might hang up the phone but he didn't. After mulling the situation over for a few seconds, he decided on the best course of action.

“Alright,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you, Detective Inspector. I'd like to keep this between us, if-”

“I should be there in twenty minutes.”

His words had clearly gotten Mycroft off guard. It didn't happen often so he allowed himself to savor it.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, his tone slow and clear, probably thinking Lestrade was too dim-witted to understand. “I don't believe I've made myself clear. We've already determined that this is probably nothing.”

“We did,” Lestrade agreed, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “And _probably_ is not good enough in my book. Can you wait twenty minutes?”

“But that would be a waste of our time-”

“Mr. Holmes, I'm out the door. Will you wait twenty minutes or will _I_ have to break in?”

After a brief moment, he heard Mycroft sigh, signaling his victory.

“I suppose it wouldn't make matters worse,” Mycroft admitted.

“Are you armed?”

“I am.”

“Is there anywhere you can hide until I get there?”

“No. I'll just stay by the gate.”

“Alright,” Lestrade agreed. “If you see or hear anything, I want you to run to your neighbor's house.”

Mycroft promised, “I will,” but Lestrade could tell he had no intention of keeping it.

“Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

Mycroft seemed to consider it. Then, he said, “You never know who's listening.”

And hanged up.

 

 

 

He'd ran the events of that night in his mind over and over as he tried to keep himself calm, but it was only when Lestrade asked him for a recount and he had to put his thoughts into clear, concise words that he truly understood what had happened: he'd heard a loud noise and he'd ran away.

No. That was not right. He hadn't left immediately, though every fiber of his being was pushing him out the door. The memory of his last scare was too recent and it had allowed him to maintain some control. He'd made it to the front door in a desperate haste but the many locks had given him pause.

In the darkness of his foyer, Mycroft had turned around, his trusty but impractical umbrella at hand. He worked to dismantle it, knowing the gun in the handle would be more useful, which was especially difficult since his hands were trembling and his eyes kept darting up the stairs, expecting – _hoping_ – to see Sherlock and his ridiculous hat, laughing at him again.

Another part of him, and that part was growing louder and louder as he struggled to take his umbrella apart, knew that Sherlock was not coming. If any sibling was coming, it was her, and it was not going to be for a practical joke.

And all he had to fight her was a secret handgun with only three rounds. He should've gotten an automatic by now, one that could really protect him, but he'd always hated weapons and his aversion hadn't gotten any better after the events of last month.

With shaking hands, he'd aimed it in the dark, eyes wild in search of a target – something big and easy to hit because his aim was not as good as Sherlock's, especially not when his brain was overwhelmed by panic. For that brief moment, he couldn't think, all he knew was that, if a clever man could easily get past his security system and bring a clown and whoever he wished inside his house for a childish prank, a clever woman with more devious instincts could do no less.

That was the moment he'd finally abandoned all rational thought and darted out the door and across the garden, his mind blank in desperation. In the blink of an eye, he'd found himself panting in the middle of the empty road, hands on his knees and his head growing light as he struggled to breathe. The only reason he didn't pass out on the ground was the vibration of his cellphone in his pocket, pulling him back to reality.

A female voice identified herself as Odette, from _Sicuro Defense_ , and asked about the breach. In the back of his mind, Mycroft registered that their response time was not _nearly_ as satisfying as he would have wished, but held back the criticism as his rational thought returned to him. He had to be clever about this.

The last time, he hadn't thought things through and allowed himself to overreact to something as innocent as a rustling sound inside his study. It seemed to him like the voice of people whispering, followed by what might have been a violent fight. At that point, he was still relatively calm as he phones for help and locked himself in his safe room. It hadn't been until one of the agents who was searching his house tried to claim there was no one there that Mycroft truly lost it. Threats were spewed so viciously and manically that even his trusty assistant had searched for something else to busy herself with, far away from him.

She was the one to find the intruder and present it to her boss: a little bird that had been trapped in his study. Even in her small hands, it looked so tiny it was hard to believe it had caused such a fuss. Mycroft had never been so mortified before as he realized the mess he'd made over something so harmless.

He couldn't afford to make the same mistake again.

Very politely and trying to cover for the fact that his lungs were on fire, he apologized to Odette for the misunderstanding, asked her to disable the alarm, and presented her with his safe code so that she wouldn't need to contact the police. Then, he'd set himself to solve the situation as best he could.

Now, he regretted calling Lestrade in the first place. There was no situation to solve, there was only a loud noise – probably another idiotic bird – and an empty house. The detective, stubborn as he was, would come by, realize there was nothing to worry about, then give him a lecture on wasting his time. Lestrade never cared to hold his tongue whenever Mycroft crossed a line, though more often than not their meetings ended with the detective slamming a door in frustration because the other man knew _exactly_ where to pressure him to get what he wanted.

Mycroft paced the sidewalk, the handle of his umbrella at hand and his feet growing cold. In his hurry to leave the house he'd remembered the keys and the gun, but he'd left his shoes behind, and the thin socks he was wearing were barely adequate for the weather. Just as he considered running back into the house to face his fears and then forbid the Detective Inspector from coming inside if he showed up, he saw the headlights up the road.

Lestrade pulled up by the gate. Judging by the way his shirt and trousers were wrinkled, he'd put on the clothes he'd worn all day and that ended up on his bedroom floor before he went to bed. He hadn't bothered combing his hair and he hadn't shaved in two days, according to the stubble on his face. The overall result was sloppy, but Mycroft could see that his eyes were as sharp as ever. Underneath the windbreaker, Mycroft spotted his gun, secured in its holster. The thought that Lestrade might actually need to use it sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade greeted, stepping up to the gate.

Mycroft offered him a curt nod of his head in response.

“Did you see anything?”

The question was nothing but a kindness, Mycroft could tell. Had Lestrade truly thought there was a threat, he wouldn't be nearly as calm as he was. His brain power might be fairly average on a good day, but he was an energetic man who wore his heart on his sleeve. Showing composure took effort and he only made that effort for his superior officers, or startled victims – and he'd told Mycroft repeatedly that he was most definitely _not_ the boss of him.

Lestrade gave him a look over, staring at his naked feet for a second too long before looking into his eyes again.

“You said you had a gun.”

Mycroft held it up under the street light. Lestrade squinted.

“That's a... handle. That's the handle of your brolly.”

“It's also a gun.”

He stared at Mycroft. “You have a _gun_ in your _brolly_?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Lestrade nodded. “Okay, Q, you know best.”

He went to the gate and, through the bars, he could spot the house, which sat about a hundred feet away, the entire distance between the entrance and Mycroft's front door covered in sensors and cameras. Assuming someone had made it past the gate and the thick brick walls, topped with an electrified fence, it was virtually impossible for someone to break in without being detected. Even before Lestrade narrowed his eyes at his house, dark and silent and so obviously empty, Mycroft knew what he was thinking: there was no one inside.

“As you can see,” he said, “I've made a mistake.”

Lestrade turned his face to look at him, frowning. There was a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was not amused at all. “Savor it, because I am not going to say it again.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Lestrade looked back at the empty house.

Mycroft stood by his side, trying not to shiver in the nightly breeze as Lestrade took in the situation. After a moment, he pulled out his gun, saying, “I still don't like the odds, no matter how satisfying the thought of you being wrong might be.”

“Put that away, Detective. There's nothing.”

“Mr. Holmes, _nothing_ doesn't make you run out of your house without your shoes on.”

Though his tone was neutral, the words still poked at the shame Mycroft was trying to suppress, sparking it awake. He had to make an effort not to look away from the detective.

“It doesn't hurt to check, since I'm already here,” Lestrade said. “How do I disable the alarm?”

“It's been disabled.”

Lestrade arched an eyebrow, asking the question silently.

“I set it off when I left. The security company called and I asked them to disable it.”

“And then you called me.”

“Yes.”

“And when you left the house, the alarm was still on?”

Mycroft gripped the gun his hand. This was getting worse by the second.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Could you...” Lestrade said, motioning to the gate. Mycroft clicked a button on the remote control and it slid open without making a sound. “Keep your phone at hand. I'll call you over once everything is cleared.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but didn't. He'd come this far, might as well see it through the end.

“This is my job, you know,” Lestrade said, after taking a look at his face.

No, it wasn't, but Mycroft wasn't about to argue. He watched as Lestrade crossed the garden, gun in hand, but pointing it down. Once he reached the house, he turned on the lights in the foyer and, for a moment, Mycroft could see his silhouette before he disappeared inside.

The minutes ticked by and he watched as each room in the house was lit, one after another, indicating Lestrade's progress, which was slow, but methodical. He left no room unchecked and seemed to spend a fair amount of time in each one. He even went to the window in his study and waved to show that everything was alright. Mycroft didn't wave back. This spectacle was not making him feel safer, but rather foolish.

When had he become the kind of man who needed someone else to come and check under his bed for monsters so he could sleep peacefully? He had always been a logical man who could rely on his own mind. Now, his mind was turning on him, making him hear things that weren't real. If he couldn't be trusted with his own safety, perhaps his superiors had a point and he shouldn't be trusted at all.

Lestrade's silhouette returned to the foyer in thirty minutes. His gun was no longer in his hand, but he recognized the shape of a cellphone. Mycroft was ready to answer before his own phone made a sound.

“I think you're good,” Lestrade said. “You can come back.”

“Did you find anything?” Mycroft asked. He knew the answer already, but he still dared to feel a little hopeful.

“No. If there was anyone, they left already.”

“There wasn't anyone.”

Lestrade went quiet. Then, “Well, at least the security system works.”

The tease was added with a smile, Mycroft could hear it through the phone. It did nothing for his peace of mind.

“I'm coming in,” he said.

Lestrade offered him another wave.

“I'll be right here.”

 

 

 

Mycroft didn't close the door behind himself as he walked in, so Lestrade stepped in to do it himself before stopping in front of him.

“So, I've checked every room, including the basement, but I couln't find anyone. Nor any signs of a break-in.”

His voice was so careful it was as if he feared Mycroft might break at the sound of a harsher word. Truth be told, he'd much rather have the harsher word, at least he knew what to do with them. Pity always left an unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

Not knowing what to say, he spotted the remains of his umbrella on the floor and picked them up to play for time. Lestrade watched him in silence, waiting for him to say something. Suddenly, the final piece of his umbrella snapped into place and he turned around.

“That was all, then, Detective Inspector. I'm sorry I wasted your time. You may go, now,” he said, austerity returning to his voice so fast that Lestrade couldn't do much more than blink.

“Oh...kay, then,” Lestrade said. “For the report, can you tell me what happened before I arrived?”

“There will be no need for an official report,” Mycroft told him, ready to fight him on the subject. Lestrade could be terribly fastidious about police procedures.

This time, he didn't insist.

“Then, can you tell me what happened just so I'll understand?”

“There isn't much to understand,” he said. “I was awoken by what I thought to be the sound of gunshot, so I took my things and waited outside for you to arrive. Clearly, I've made a mistake.”

Lestrade kept his eyes on him. Mycroft shrugged.

“It was that simple.”

“The gunshot-”

“The wind must have slammed a door.”

“No, I've checked every window. They're all closed.”

It was Mycroft's turn to stare. The possibility had occurred to him before, of course, but he'd clung to the hope that it might have been something else. Something as trivial as the wind, or a bird. Instead, it seemed that the gunshot had only been inside his mind, and that had been enough to send him running from his own house, as if the Devil himself was chasing him.

“There is a film projector in the basement,” Lestrade offered. “Maybe it was that-”

“It wasn't,” Mycroft said. “I was in the basement. I fell asleep watching a movie.”

“I see.” Lestrade gave him a smile. “You know, for a moment, I actually thought you slept like this.”

Lestrade waved a hand at his suit. Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest, saying, “I don't.”

“What were you watching?”

“What?” he asked, surprised by the question.

“The movie, was it-”

“It was an old movie.”

“Any gunshots?”

“It was already over.”

Lestrade nodded and Mycroft could tell he was mulling the facts over in his typical slowness.

“You know,” he said, managing to make his voice even more careful than before. “After what you've been through, it's only natural that you-”

“I didn't call you because I needed someone to talk to, Detective,” he said, rather aggressively.

To his surprise, Lestrade looked more confused than affronted.

“I... see. I just assumed, given that you have access to much better than a random detective, that you wanted, you know, a friend.”

Mycroft couldn't help but scoff. “Since when are we friends?”

This time, he could recognize a glimpse of something in Lestrade's eyes. Yes, he knew that Mycroft had a point, but given that he'd gotten out of his bed in the middle of the night, driven to his house, then checked every room to make sure no one was trying to shoot him... perhaps they weren't friends, or liked each other very much for that matter, but a little more tact wasn't too much to ask.

“We're not,” Lestrade agreed. “So why can't you call your security system?”

“Because I can't.”

“Don't you have bodyguards? Secret agents? I dunno... assassins?”

“They were not available,” Mycroft said, gritting his teeth and making it clear that his line of questioning was not welcomed.

Lestrade either didn't seem to pick up on that, or simply didn't care. He frowned his face at Mycroft, adding things up.

“You don't want people to know that you are afraid,” Lestrade deduced, and it was almost disappointing how long it had taken him to reach that conclusion.

Mycroft stared back at him, his face turning red. His first impulse was to think of a vicious threat that would send the detective inspector running, but he refrained from doing that. Instead, he opened his front door and pointed out. The conversation was over.

“Fine, okay,” Lestrade said, taking a step towards the door, but then stopping and looking at him again. “Who can you call, then?”

“What?” Mycroft asked, not believing that they were still having that conversation.

“Do you have anyone you can call in case something does happen?” Lestrade asked, spewing his words slowly, as if Mycroft were the stupid one.

“That's none of your concern.”

“I'm a police officer and you just told me you will not call for help if the need arises-”

“The need will not arise.”

“Can't you ask your parents to move in until...”

He left the sentence unfinished.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes dangerously in his direction.

“Until _what_?”

“Until the Queen gets off your back.”

“The _Queen_?”

“Whoever it is that's the boss of you.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “I will not ask my parents to move in with me.”

 _Nor would they want to_ , he didn't add.

“What about Sh-”

Mycroft gave him a poignant look that made Sherlock's name die on his lips.

“I didn't think that one through.”

“A frequent occurrence.”

Lestrade brushed the backhanded comment and asked, “Can't you go to a hotel- no, no, I see. The Queen would probably see your credit card statements-”

“For goodness sake!” Mycroft exploded. “The Queen of England is not reading my credit card statements, Inspector Lestrade. Listen here, you have done me a great favor and I appreciate you coming all the way over here to make sure I was doing fine. Your concern for your fellow citizen's well-being is _admirable_ and _touching_.”

Lestrade didn't seem to be fooled by the politeness of his words. He might as well have called his actions _foolish_ and _extremely annoying_.

“Mr. Holmes-”

“I am, however,” Mycroft cut in, “doing perfectly fine without your help. Now, given that it's well past five in the morning, I'd like to get some sleep.”

He finished by pointing a finger at the open door.

Lestrade looked at it, then raised his hands in surrender and took a step towards the door. Then, he took a step back. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Then something seemed to cross his mind and it must have been quite an absurd thought because Lestrade rolled his eyes at himself. He looked at Mycroft again, at the dark halls that stood behind him, and took in a deep breath. When the suggestion came, his tone was not full of pity, and it wasn't kind. Rather, his offer had a dreadful sound, as if he had regretted it long before he opened his mouth but couldn't simply not ask it.

“Come stay with me, then.”

For a moment, Mycroft stared at him, his index finger still pointing out the door. Then, he pocketed his hands and said, “With such enthusiasm, you're making it too easy to say no.”

“Don't be an arsehole, will ya?” Lestrade snapped. “I'm trying to be a decent friend.”

“We're not-”

“A decent _acquaintance_ , then. Look, the kids won't be home until next weekend anyway. That gives you ten days to sort things out.”

“This is none of your concern, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, stubbornly. “You've fulfilled your duty as a man of the law and as a human being. You can walk away.”

“I can't,” Lestrade said, and Mycroft couldn't tell if he was frustrated with his bullheadedness, or his own moral code.

For a moment, neither of them seemed willing to give in, Mycroft still holding on to the front door, Lestrade still refusing to walk out of it. Then, Mycroft looked past him and into the dark corridors that opened right behind him, leading to empty rooms and echoing halls. So many places where one could hide. A home where he hadn't felt safe for a single night since he'd come back.

To Lestrade, he said, “No more than a couple of days, then.”

The other man seemed surprised at his answer. “Alright... no more than a couple of days.”

“And I don't want to talk,” he warned him, making Lestrade nod his head.

“We'll stay out of each other's way.”

Once again, Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest, looking extremely displeased. He took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose, slowly, angrily.

“I'll go pack an overnight bag,” he announced.

Lestrade stepped to the side to let him through, not doubting for a moment that Mycroft Holmes might push him out of the way in a fit of anger.

There was no way this was going to end well.

 

 


End file.
